


Degrees of Separation

by betweenthebliss



Series: Badly Drawn [1]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: 10000-15000 words, Aliens, Chaptered, Community: st_xi_kink, First Time, Friendship, Hand porn, M/M, Mild torture, Mind Meld, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-13
Updated: 2009-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-02 16:31:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betweenthebliss/pseuds/betweenthebliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being captured and tortured by aliens leads to Spock mind-melding with Kirk for the first time, with unexpected consequences for both of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. even though there's no way out, we'll find one

**Author's Note:**

> The Silurians were borrowed from Dr. Who, the J'nanin System was borrowed from Myst, the prompt came from ninety6tears @ LJ and none of this would exist without raphaela667's fantastic beta skills.

It was clever, Kirk thinks, shackling them within reach of each other. Your garden-variety evil aliens would've known to chain them up so they could see each other-- that's a piece of cake to an experienced torturer-- but this, tying them up with enough give on the chains so they can reach out to each other-- is really cruel.

Kirk might have appreciated the cunning in it, if he weren't kneeling on the floor next to Sulu's unconscious body, frantically feeling for a pulse.

"He is not dead," says their tormentor, the s lengthening into a cool hiss. The sibilance still makes Kirk's skin crawl, and it's been two days.

"Lucky for you," Kirk snarls, unable to help responding. He stands, the chains dangling slack from his wrists, and gives the Silurian a look that would make any normal person spontaneously catch on fire. "You're going to pay for this."

"Your attempts at threats are amusing to us." The forked tongue darts out even when it's not talking; tasting the fear on the air, or something equally poetic and disgusting.

"It has been my experience that when Captain Kirk makes a promise, he follows through on it." Spock's voice is ragged. Kirk chances a look at him; his mouth and the side of his face are a mass of green scabs, but the deep slice curling around the front of his ear has mostly stopped bleeding, and his eyes are radiating hatred toward their captor.

"Irrelevant." It's almost funny, Kirk thinks, how the alien's emotionless reaction seems to piss Spock off even more. "We require the information you have learned from the rebels you met with yesterday. Your resistance has only brought you pain. Why not concede?"

"That's not what I do," Kirk growls, feeling the fury rising from the pit of his stomach like a living thing.

"It is what everyone does," the alien says, sliding one of its seven-fingered hands into an iron-studded glove. "Eventually." It crosses the room to where Jim's tied up and casually backhands him across the face. He sees stars, his legs buckle, the left side of his face explodes in agony, and everything else goes dim. He doesn't fall to the ground, though, not yet. He's got a lot more fight in him than this. He straightens, spits a mouthful of blood at the alien's feet, despite the agony the motion inflicts on his split cheek, and gives the bastard the widest, most gruesome grin he can manage. He's rewarded with a punch to the stomach, one that sends him stumbling backwards, winded and heaving.

"I can assure you that you will not achieve your desired end through inflicting physical pain." Spock's voice is more than hoarse, now; he sounds like he's the one who just got a wrecking ball to the gut. Jim can't look at him. He's in the zone now, the zone he reaches when he's in a fight and he knows he's losing and he's stopped hoping he'll be able to walk away in one piece. Now he just wants to fuck with the other guy-- or in this case the other lizard-- as much as possible. Never make it easy, never let him see he's making headway-- it's a habit by now, a reflex. Somewhere between stepdad number two and the first bar brawl that landed him in county lockup for the night, he ended up with this idea that showing your weaknesses was a fast way to get them kicked down your throat; he hasn't always been glad of it, but he sure as hell is now.

"Perhaps not from him," comes the hissed reply. The alien's not even looking at Spock now, too intent on fitting a cap on each finger of the glove; a cap with a short, slender blade attached like a fingernail. Seven bright points of steel; Jim follows them with pain-hazed eyes as the hand draws close to his face. "But we are very thorough. One of you will speak, if only to prevent the other's demise." One finger caresses his cheek; Jim doesn't even feel the skin part, only the pain that follows after.

The second cut curves beneath his right eye.

The third connects the corner of his mouth to his ear.

The fourth traces the line of his throat, stopping just short of his clavicle.

And then, just as Jim's starting to think he might be able to get through this, the razored hand grasps him by the shoulder, all seven claws digging in deep, holding him in place while he howls and kicks out, and the Silurian's other brass-knuckled fist drives into his stomach, three times in rapid succession.

He does fall down, then, retching, his ruined face on fire. He can't see for blood and pain, and now James Kirk is more pissed off than he can ever remember being in his life. It's only made worse by the fact that he's too weak to move.

An indeterminable amount of time later he senses movement beside him and flinches, but nothing touches him. "It's me, Jim," says Spock, and Jim forces his eyes open. "Great," he croaks. "How ya liking the sneak preview?" Spock's kneeling beside him, his face unreadable as usual. "Where's Godzilla?"

"I am close, never fear." The voice almost sounds amused.

"Jim." Spock's tone holds a note of urgency Jim knows he wouldn't have noticed six months ago. He tries to focus; only one eye cooperates. "Jim. Relax." He wants to ask Spock what the hell he means, relax, how's he supposed to relax when he's been beaten half to death, and why should he relax anyway, when he sees Spock's hand hovering beside his face. The Vulcan makes a show of brushing the hair back from his brow, then mutters softly, "This will hurt."

Then his fingers are on Jim's face, chin and cheek and brow, and he's goddamn right it hurts, it's fucking agony having fingers pressing hard where iron studs and tiny knives have torn open his flesh. But what happens as Spock's eyes fall shut and his mind opens to Jim's is enough to make the pain fall away, almost enough to make him forget what pain feels like.

The older Spock had melded with him for a purpose, and what he'd seen had been defined by that-- one story, each image chosen and given with a will. This is nothing like that. Spock's mind is a tangle, a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions that sucks Jim in, and he is submerged, he drowns, like diving headfirst into still water and finding the bottom is nowhere near as close as you thought.

_I am giving you some of my energy,_ the voice is a shout and a whisper at the same time, and Jim reels, while he is bombarded with images and feelings that are not his own--

_in the transporter room, Sarek tells him /I married her because I loved her/, and months later in the same room Jim meets his eyes with a steady gaze and says /I can't do this without you/_\--

and he does feel it, a warmth and energy suffusing him, coming from somewhere that is definitely not himself. Like being drunk, except instead of making his brain hyper or fuzzy it's making everything clear, but the images just don't stop--

_Uhura looks sad but her eyes are kind as she says /We were friends first, we will be again/, and Jim lies unconscious and bruised in sick bay while McCoy's voice drifts down, /You've been here five times, man, I will **tell** you when he wakes up/, and when Jim returns to the bridge three days later Spock looks up with only a nod, though his heart rate has jumped and he's having trouble containing a smile_\--

Jim gasps, dizzy, _What are you doing to me,_ only barely aware he's not actually speaking out loud, but Spock doesn't answer the question except to give him more, more strength, more of himself, and somehow it's not just physical, it's from the heart, and for the first time in two days Jim feels hope--

_the Silurian's seven steel fingertips drive into Jim's flesh and he screams, and Spock's stomach roils with fear and feeling and the urge to let his fury take control, to snap the lizard's neck and tear its heart out, and he thinks, /I will kill them for this/, and Jim feels the surge of possesive protectiveness as if it's his own_\--

His eyes snap open but Spock's are still closed, and he sees their captor turn toward them again--

_While the Silurian drops Jim to the ground Spock dispassionately folds his thumb into his palm and presses down on the joint until it cracks, dislocating, the pain does not register as he pulls the manacle off, scraping fresh gouges in his skin, and he keeps it hidden as he goes to Jim's side_\--

Then Spock is gone, his hand dropping away just in time for the menacing hiss too close to be safe, "Step away from the human," it says, and Spock looks more shaken than Jim's ever seen him, and now he's aware enough to notice the blood and bruises on Spock's right hand, the hand holding the manacle that used to be around his wrist.

"No, I don't think I will," Spock says, exhausted but adamant, and the chain flows through his hand like water, the manacle spinning through the air to connect with the alien's skull, a wet thwack that Jim will remember with crystal clarity for weeks.

The Silurian slumps to the floor, unconscious or dead, Jim can't tell and doesn't really give a shit. Spock reaches first for its weapon, next for the keys, and as he unlocks their chains Jim laughs, a wheezy rattle that sends air whistling through the gashes in his cheeks; if he hadn't already seen what his face looks like through Spock's eyes, he'd know now just how fucked up he is.

"My hero," he mutters thickly, starting to get to his feet. Spock kneels beside him again, lays a hand on his shoulder. "You should not move yet," he says, his voice strained, and Jim's starting to be able to tell when Spock's having a hard time keeping a handle on his emotions.

"I'm okay," he says, meeting Spock's eyes with his own honest look, his heart suddenly hammering in his chest. "Might not be as easy on the eyes after this, but, you know." He tries to smile but his bruised mouth won't let him, and suddenly Spock's hand is on his, tight and hot and if it were anyone else it'd probably be the kind of hug that knocks you on your ass. He doesn't say anything; Jim thinks maybe he can't, and he's not sure he could find many words just now either. Not just for everything that's happened in the past two days, but more for everything that's happened in the past ten minutes; it's just all too much, right now, and it occurs to them at the same time that it's probably high time they armed themselves and got the hell out of Dodge.

"Come on," Jim says, getting to his feet and pulling Spock up by the hand he's still holding onto. "I'll take Sulu, you take two phasers, and let's get the fuck out of here." There's practicality, but promise in it too; he won't forget what he saw and felt in Spock's mind, and maybe after they've managed to fight their way clear to where the ship can pick them back up, they can talk about it. Or maybe talking's overrated; Jim's still feeling enough like himself to spare a thought for that possibility.

He picks up a phaser himself, 'cause why the hell not. He's done crazier things than try to shoot while carrying a wounded guy over his shoulder. "Whoever kills the most of these lizard bastards gets first choice of beds in sickbay," he says as he shoulders Sulu's weight and turns to see Spock taking another phaser from the rack on the wall.

His face grimmer than Jim's ever seen it, Spock flicks the weapon's setting to kill and points it between the eyes of their torturer, still unconscious on the floor. "That is a wager I will happily take," he says, and pulls the trigger.


	2. leave the lights on if you're the last one alive

Spock's consciousness returned abruptly and his eyes snapped open. Without moving, he assessed his surroundings. The lights were dim, the air cool, the room large and mostly silent. Sickbay, then, judging by the lack of smell and the narrowness of the bed in which he lay.

His first mistake was trying to turn his head. Pain flared along the entire side of his face, and he realized there were bandages, pulling slightly with his movements. He raised his right hand; his broken thumb was compressed in a splint, the abrasions crosshatching the skin painted with a clear bandaging liquid. He was lucky few parts of his job depended on hand-written reports, for he could tell by the dull throbbing deep in the broken joint that he would not be holding a stylus any time soon.

It took him eight minutes to sit upright, and another four to maneuver the pole holding his intravenous drip to a point at which he could use it to lever himself to a standing position. There was a mirror on the wall behind him, he knew; he kept his back to it. Objectively he knew the sight of his own injuries was one that would likely shock him, and he preferred to concentrate on how his body actually felt than waste time on the superficial.

Brushing past the curtain around his bed, he scanned sickbay for activity. The room was lowlit and there were no signs of movement, though the light from Dr. McCoy's half-open office door illuminated the far corner. Spock began walking, slow but silent thanks to the socks someone had put on him, toward one of the other beds also surrounded by a curtain. He did not wish to intrude, but...

_But there is no logical end to that sentence_, he thought to himself. _You do not wish to intrude, but you will, because you need to see that he is alive and will be well._

The first bed was occupied by an unconscious Sulu. Sleeping, he thought, not sedated, but it was likely McCoy planned to keep all three of them there for a few days, and the poison the Silurians had given Sulu may not have worn off yet. Dropping the curtain, Spock moved on to the other curtained bed, the closest of the three to McCoy's office. At the point of parting the curtain he stopped, stricken by a sudden twist of anxiety low in his stomach.

_Your fear is unfounded_, he told himself sharply. _It is illogical to think he would have deteriorated since returning to the ship, Doctor McCoy is highly competent and this infirmary is well equipped to facilitate his recovery._

And yet, he was nervous. _Afraid. You are afraid._

"Wouldja stop hoverin' and go in already?" Spock's head snapped up and he regarded the Doctor with an even gaze that belied none of his inner turmoil. McCoy stood in the door to his office, arms folded over his chest. Backlit, his expression was obscured, but Spock thought he was familiar enough with the Enterprise's chief medical officer to guess at the exasperated look he was likely wearing.

"I do not wish to wake the Captain if he is resting; I merely wanted to--"

"He's out like a light," McCoy cut him off. Perhaps he did not want to listen to Spock dissemble; perhaps he did not want to talk at all. Spock knew how he cared for Kirk; this could not have been easy on him either. "Not sedated, asleep," the doctor clarified, "like I expected you to be for another eight hours." He stepped out of the office, tricorder in hand, and came closer with a gruff "Hold still." He gave Spock a scan from the top of his head down to his heart, then gave him a hard look, most likely attempting to ascertain the level of pain the Vulcan was hiding from him.

"I am not in pain," Spock said. "I assure you I would not hide it from you if I was. Pain is not an emotion, Doctor McCoy, and it would be highly illogical to conceal the level or speed of my recovery from my attending physician."

McCoy nodded, still not looking entirely convinced, and waved toward the curtain. "Go do your hovering, but if he wakes up and he's in pain, call me." He vanished back into his office, but left the door open.

Alone once more, Spock had no choice but to step through the opening in the curtain, the pole rolling quietly behind him.

It seemed brighter within than without; only a slight glow penetrated the curtain itself, but there was enough coming through the gap beneath it to illuminate the small space. Spock sat in the chair beside the bed and drew it close, his hands clenched by his sides as he surveyed the scope of Kirk's injuries.

Dehydration had done more damage than two days without food, but they had all gone through that, and the intravenous drip twin to the one in Spock's arm seemed to be doing its job. Bruises flowered across every inch of exposed skin, and from the sternum up even that was half obscured by bandages. The wounds in the shoulder were heavily wrapped, but even still Spock could see blood seeping through, and a tinge of lurid purple-- poisoned, then, the blades had been poisoned. The pads of gauze covering the more creative cuts on his face seemed cleaner. The small punctures left by the iron glove seemed to have healed with nothing more than some of the same liquid bandage covering the abrasions on Spock's hand; he wondered then, glancing at the fast-fading cuts, how long they had been unconscious.

It was only when he stopped looking at the wounds and allowed himself to look at the man who bore them that he found it difficult to breathe. He knew it was illogical to indulge his foolish emotions, to submit willingly to the fear and panicked fury that had consumed him down on the planet. They had all made it back to the ship, alive and mending. Recalling their captivity and reliving the emotions it had incited would not be productive; focusing on the positive would be.

But he could not deny he had been terrified, and that, as strong as that feeling had been, his relief now was twice as forceful. He settled back in the chair and let his eyes close, focusing on his breathing until it calmed, and sat thus for several long moments until the silence was broken.

"Didn't they give you a bed?" The voice was weak, but the tone unmistakeable. Spock's eyes snapped open and met Jim's, half-open but alert, fixed on his face. "I told 'em to give you the best one."

"And I told them to do the same for you," he returned evenly, ignoring the sudden increase in his heart rate, wishing fervently he could regulate it by mere force of will. "Not only did you dispatch more of our opponents, but you did so while carrying an injured man on your back."

"Yeah, but you were the one who got us out of there," Jim said, and Spock knew by now when not to argue with him.

"Are you in much pain?" he asked instead. "Doctor McCoy said--"

"I'm fine," Kirk interrupted. "Spock."

"Yes, Captain." It was in situations like these he was most grateful for his deep-seated control over his own emotions. Were he fully human, he thought with a moment of self-deprecating scorn, right now he had no doubt he would be giving the captain an embarrassing display of feeling.

"I think it's okay if you call me Jim, you know," he mumbled. "C'mere." His hand twitched, patting the side of the bed. Spock moved his chair closer; he could have laid his arm on the bed had he chosen to do so. But he did not, and so Jim moved his own arm, dragging it as if it were heavy, until his fingers brushed Spock's elbow where it pressed against the bed. "You're okay?" he asked, his voice thick, almost slurred, but the concern in it still evident.

Spock stirred in his chair, restlessly uncomfortable with the question. "My injuries were minimal compared to yours."

"Come on Spock, they almost cut your damn ear off," Jim protested, his hand twitching again, motioning to the bandage. "You practically ripped your thumb off getting us loose."

"Both superficial injuries," Spock insisted, "and neither inflicted by a poisoned blade." He sighed impatiently, a rare indulgence, finally relenting and moving his arm to rest on the bed, his hand near enough to Jim's to feel the heat radiating off the captain's skin. "You are lucky even to be alive, Jim, let alone conscious and well enough to argue."

"I'm always well enough to argue," Jim said, the words devolving into a hacking cough. It took Spock a moment to realize he was laughing. "The day I'm too weak to argue with you is the day you should start being worried."

Against his inclination, Spock found himself smiling. "I will grant that is as accurate a guide as any I could imagine."

"Did you just say I was _right_ about something?" He hacked a few more times. "Are you sure I'm not dying?"

Spock's heart rate jumped again and his hand moved unconsciously to grip Jim's, tight almost to the point of pain. "I am certain," he said, only a slight hoarseness betraying the emotion behind his quiet words. The touch of their hands-- the second time he had initiated this, both times without consciously deciding to do so-- was both soothing and electrifying, eroding his ability to modulate his voice and erasing his inclination to care. He knew Kirk would have no idea the intimacy that was conveyed for a Vulcan in the touching of hands, and so did not feel nearly as awkward in letting the contact continue as he might have otherwise done.

Kirk's hand turned in his so they were palm to palm, his fingers resting against the pulse point on Spock's wrist. Once more Spock was grateful it was his instinct to keep his reactions to himself; the shiver that passed through him at the touch would not have gone unnoticed. "You saved my life," Jim said, his voice a soft rasp like paper. "I didn't know you'd-- the meld, I mean, I didn't know it could work like that."

Spock's glance was fixed on Jim's shoulder. He was trying to focus on something other than Jim's hand in his; it was an effort. "I had never attempted it for that purpose before," he admitted. "There were risks--" not the least of which was Jim suddenly having a window onto his private thoughts and feelings, a window Spock had never intended him to have-- "but given the situation, I felt they were outweighed by the potential gain."

Jim's fingers stirred against his wrist, and Spock swallowed, his eyes darting to Jim's face. "Jim," he began, but Kirk heard the tone, knew what was coming, and shook his head. "No, c'mon, not now." His expression was naked and earnest, and as Spock let himself meet that blue stare with a long look of his own, he felt his stomach twist and something nameless and huge unfold within him. "We just-- it's okay, I mean you get that, right? You don't have anything to be worried about." His hand shifted, fingers folding through Spock's, squeezing lightly.

And Spock sat slient for a moment, wanting to ask but too anxious and tired to participate in the conversation that would be the answer, digesting the panorama of emotions flooding him and processing the fact that Jim's hand was still in his, closer than ever. They were alive and safe and the ship wasn't blowing up without them and they were _holding hands_. His next thought ran through his mind and out of his mouth without stopping, and the rightness of it took him a little by surprise.

"It would seem you know me better than I had thought." He glanced at Jim with an infinitesmal smile.

"Yeah," he replied, shifting in the bed, offering his own brash attempt at a grin. "I know." He winced, then, and his breath hissed out through his nose, a clear sign he was feeling the pain of his injuries. Spock got to his feet faster than he'd thought he was yet able, looking toward McCoy's office. "You are in pain," he said, moving toward the curtain.

"Spock." Jim's face was calm, but he still clutched Spock's hand with warm fingers, and the intensity in his eyes burned. "Thanks."

The human compulsion to express gratitude often stemmed, Spock knew, from a desire to absolve oneself of feelings of guilt or unworthiness, or at times a sense of obligation to acknowledge one's own inability to handle a situation on one's own. He did not often offer such admissions himself for this reason, and did his best not to indulge the effusive thanks of others. He neither needed nor wanted them.

This was different. This time, instead of sidestepping or dismissing, he tipped his head forward in a nod of acknowledgment. When he lifted it, he was smiling, though his chest felt tight. "You are most welcome." He shifted his grip on the captain's hand and pressed their palms together briefly once more before letting go, and going to fetch Dr. McCoy.


	3. i'll be by your side, believe me

It feels good to have the uniform on again. Unlikely as it had seemed at first, he's come to feel comfortable in it. Maybe there are more stripes on the sleeves than there should be, and maybe there are times he wishes he never has to look at the damn thing again. Still. Wearing gold, he knows who he is and where he stands; there's a kind of comfort in it, in knowing how to act and how to react, knowing the boundaries of the role he plays.

Not that he ever stays within them for long. But even that's part of the person he is with the captain's uniform on. James T. Kirk, Captain of the U.S.S. Enterprise, rule breaker and line crosser. And today, finally, an officer fully recovered from his injuries and returning to duty. He's still not as friendly with a mirror as he was three weeks ago, and maybe never will be again. The marks aren't _that_ bad, he knows, so there's a good chance it's his own vanity he's less comfortable staring down than the handful of tiny scars now peppering one side of his face.

"You'll need to come see me again in six hours," Bones tells him, prepping Jim's morning dose of antibiotic hypospray. "And don't think I won't send security to fetch you if you don't."

"I hate you," Jim replies cheerfully. "You only became a doctor 'cause you like injecting people against their will, admit it."

"No, I became a doctor because I'm good at it. I took this assignment because there's nothing I want to do with my life except follow you around the galaxy patching you up after every goddamn mess you make." He stabs Jim in the neck with the hypospray and grins when the captain yelps. "Couldn'a happened to a nicer guy," he says sweetly, patting his friend on the uninjured cheek. "Now get out of here, and set your damn watch."

Jim hops off the table, grimacing and rubbing his neck. "Hey, Bones," he says, his tone more serious. McCoy looks up from the PADD he's tapping, wearing his _What do you want now_ face. "Thanks."

Bones's mouth twists wryly, but his eyes are full of humor as he waves his hand dismissively. "Six hours, Jim."

Grinning, Kirk leaves sick bay and heads toward the turbo lift. He can't wait to get back to work.

\---

The turbolift door hisses open and then closed again, and everyone on the bridge snaps to attention. They don't applaud; their first officer has already warned them against it. But their approval screams from every smart salute, every broad grin they turn on their captain as he strides to the center of the room. "Mr. Sulu, where we at?"

"En route to Starfleet base in the J'nanin system, sir," Sulu replies, his grin threatening to split his face in half. "Set to arrive in fifteen hours twenty-three minutes."

"Excellent." Only then does the captain take his seat, glancing around the room as he does. "Alright everybody, quit staring and get back to work," he says amiably, earning him a collective chuckle from the officers on deck-- who nevertheless scramble to become busy with something as fast as they can.

Spock does likewise without comment, though there is at present little to be done at his station. After recalibrating the telemetry on the remainder of their journey, he sits back in his chair and focuses on not turning around to look at the captain. He is more than a little embarrassed to admit that such is even his inclination, that he even desires an acknowledgment of the connection that now exists between them. He is even more chagrined to realize the disappointment he will feel if he offers such a gesture and it is not returned.

As it happens, however, he is spared further consideration of the subject when there is a step behind him and he senses someone standing over his shoulder. "How are we, Commander?" The captain's tone is professional, but the words are quiet, and as Spock turns to face him he is presented for an instant with Kirk's face in profile, the light from the console throwing the pale marks scattered across his cheek into sharp contrast with the even tan of his skin. Spock's mind unwittingly supplies the image again (the memory is all too clear, the Silurian's easy slap that had torn Kirk's face open as easy as fileting a fish, and the crushed gurgling sound it had torn from him) and he swallows hard, ruthlessly suppressing the sudden hollow dip in his stomach.

The moment passes and they face each other, the captain's face creased by a brilliant grin. Analysis of the emotions the smile provokes find them to be equal parts relief, amusement and anticipation-- though of what, Spock honestly cannot say. Since that first day they had awoken in sickbay over a week ago, they had not spoken of what had occurred between them on the planet; Spock had been less inclined to attempt a personal discussion in a public place, and perhaps Jim had known better than to push him toward it. But if Jim has been a little more familiar with him since then, and if he himself has not seen the taking of those liberties as the same sort of affront he might once have done, neither of them have been inclined to comment on the matter.

"Everything is running smoothly, Captain," he replies, answering the smile as well with a barely perceptible one of his own. Kirk sees it, though, as Spock had known he would, and his grin deepens to something more akin to a smirk.

"Excellent." He starts to move on to another station, then turns back and adds, "Oh, I'll need to see you later to discuss our next course after we leave J'nanin."

Spock nods, and doesn't even try to keep his eyebrow in check. It says more than his tone ever could. "At your convenience, Captain."

He turns back to his station, but not so fast that he misses the look of incredulous enjoyment that crosses Jim's face.

\---

Six hours later and Jim's about ready to crawl out of his skin. It's not like he has much in the way of patience to begin with anyway, but this is just fucking torture. He wants to know what's going to happen later, wants it to be later _now_. Oh he's still happy to be on the bridge, sure, he's thrilled to be back in the saddle and nothing's ever going to stop him enjoying the hell out of the companionable rapport he's got with his officers. But right now, where one of his officers is concerned at least, he's got a hell of a lot more than companionable rapport on his mind.

Also, his cheek itches like a bastard.

To be honest he's not even sure what he thinks is going to happen. This isn't like most of his other conquests-- and God, if there's a word wronger than _conquest_ to describe what's going on between him and Spock, he can't think of it. If Jim's being totally frank with himself, his excitement isn't even grounded in physical attraction (though that's definitely there, and he's starting to think he can't remember a time when it wasn't); it's more at the prospect of having this all out in the open-- of being alone somewhere there's no chance of being interrupted, so he can pick Spock's brain and find out what the hell is going on inside it.

It's pretty funny, he's got to admit; him looking forward to talking about their feelings.

The timer on his wrist communicator goes off and he exhales, a breath he hadn't thought about holding. "Time to take my medicine," he says, voice full of exaggerated reluctance as he gets to his feet to another round of chuckles from the crew. "Spock, you have the con." He pauses at the door to the turbolift and glances at the Vulcan, who's already looking back at him, and hopes like hell he sounds casual. "Nineteen hundred okay? My quarters?" Spock just nods, not even a flicker of an expression crossing his face. "See you then," Jim says, flashing a grin before stepping into the lift.

Once the door shuts he leans his head back against the wall, his stomach suddenly churning with uncertainty that doesn't make any sense. He knows what he saw in Spock's mind, what he felt, the power behind Spock's determination to exact repayment from the aliens who'd tortured them-- tortured _him_. God, yes, he knows that was real. But Jim would be the first person to admit there's a far cry between feeling a thing and acting on it; maybe the reason Spock never acted on it was-- what? That's where it unravels in Jim's head; he still can't fathom the way Spock's mind works in a situation like this, and it's infuriating if only for the possibility he might fuck something up without even knowing he's doing it.

The thing is, he reasons, he's pretty sure he can work around whatever roadblocks Spock might put up. He knows enough of what Spock feels to decide he's going to take this as far as it'll go, and he knows where they stand with each other. They work well together, complement each other on the bridge and off, an equal give and take. He can't imagine that wouldn't survive the translation to something more than colleagues, more than friends. In fact, it's all the more reason Jim's ready to do his usual jump-first-think-later, except this time he's not really giving a damn about the consequences.

Talking himself through his nerves works-- it always does. The turbolift stops and Jim gets off, heading toward sick bay. There's a few hours left before his date (he refuses to call it that, but it's kind of what it is, anyway) and after he gets his second forced injection of the day, maybe he'll go for a walk, visit Scotty and Keenser and see if he can maybe win back his title at Excite Truck IX. The little green bastard's been left to gloat way too long, and Jim's got some time to kill.

\-----

Spock walks past the captain's door without even looking the first time. He is fifteen minutes early and does not want to admit that he is unable to think of anything to do, that there is nothing else he _wants_ to do or could even potentially pay proper attention to right now. It is embarrassing to admit what this uncertainty is doing to his emotions, and how that in turn is fraying his customary self-control.

He has no idea what to expect from this conversation-- at least, he is mostly certain there will be conversation. He cannot imagine an interaction with Jim Kirk that does not involve talking (and he is chagrined to admit, even to himself, how he has endeavored to prevent his mind from exploring the ways in which that truth might manifest itself).

He circles the corridor and moves toward Jim's quarters again; it is now only six minutes until the time they had agreed upon. He raises his hand to the hailing button when he hears heavy loping footsteps and Jim himself jogs up, slightly out of breath. "Hey," he pants, grinning, "sorry, I was, I just got-- I'm not late, am I?"

Spock favors him with a quirked eyebrow. "By my calculations you are still a few minutes early."

Kirk's grin slides toward a smirk. "You mean _we're_ a few minutes early," he says, and keys in the passcode to open his door. He barrels into the room and it takes him a moment to look back and realize Spock is still in the door. "Well, are you coming in?" he demands, the hectic energy radiating from him making Spock's pulse jump.

"Yes," he replies, and steps inside, letting the door slide shut behind him.

Improbably, he has never been inside this room; their off-duty interactions most often take place at meals or over the chess board on Deck Six, and in recent months Spock has not allowed himself the luxury of being alone with Jim more than had become customary in the early months of their friendship.

He glances around, cataloguing what he sees; he does not know what he had been expecting. Clutter, perhaps, and there is some of that, but surprisingly little. Some photographs, most of them recent. Books, many more books than anything else, lining the walls and tucked onto shelves, stacked haphazardly in front of and on top of each other, the better to economize the space. Signs of habitation, certainly, the room is lived in; but Spock is somewhat startled to discover the overall effect is nearly as sparse as that of his own quarters.

"Tell the truth," Jim says from behind him, and Spock turns to find blue eyes regarding him wryly. "You're surprised I can actually read."

Spock has to smile, slight though it is. "I confess I had assumed that was what you relied on me for," he replies, turning to face the captain where he leans against the desk that stands near the window.

"See, look at that, you're making fun of me," Jim laughs, sounding proud, or perhaps gratified. "Knew I'd start rubbing off on you sooner or later." Spock has no reply; more accurately, he has too many replies competing in his mind, and so he says nothing.

The silence does not go unnoticed, and Spock sees Jim's mouth twist in an expression of wry humor, or perhaps regret. "Why'd you come?" he asks, and his tone leaves no room for dissembling or pretending to misunderstand his meaning.

Spock considers the question, aware that his lips are pressed together and his eyes slanted to one side, making no effort to control the expression. It is difficult to think, he finds; he wants to concentrate but the weight of feeling in Jim's voice has arrested his composure, and the rest of his body is humming with nerves that are increasingly difficult to ignore. The answer to the question, he finds, is startlingly simple. He considers whether to give it so unreservedly, but as much as it goes against his makeup to be so free with his feelings, even stronger is the sense that to dissemble would be wrong. He would be denying something he does not as yet know how to articulate, but knows, nevertheless, that it is vital not to suppress.

"I came here because you asked me to," he says quietly, and there is no room for misunderstanding in that, either.

\-----

Jim is silent for a moment after Spock's admission-- because that's what it is, he knows, and he also knows the fact that the Vulcan's letting him see this much is nothing to sneeze at.

He doesn't know what to say next-- only that's not really true, it's not that he doesn't know or that he doesn't want to say what he's got, it's that this silence is nice right now. It gives him the chance to do things like sneak an appreciative glance at the line of Spock's jaw as his head turns away, acknowledge how much he'd really like to close the gap between them and trace that line with his tongue. And that's nice, too, thinking that and knowing it's okay.

Then Spock looks up and catches him staring, and Jim doesn't try to pretend he wasn't. He might be blushing a little, but he's not going to dignify that by trying to hide it either. His heart is thumping wildly in his chest, and he's pretty sure if he tried to do anything with his hands right now they'd be shaking.

"This is kind of funny," he says after a long moment.

"I fail to find any humor in our interaction so far," Spock says, but he sounds like he could be convinced otherwise.

"I just mean, I invited you here and I can't-- I don't even know where to start." He drags in a breath, hating how shaky it feels. "I don't know what the hell this is, Spock, and I know you're not going to tell me unless I drag it out of you-- which, believe me, I'm more than willing to do," he says with a flash of wicked smile. "But I just-- look, you're my friend, right?" Spock nods, though he's got to know it was a rhetorical question. "So you know me well enough to know that if you were anyone else right now we wouldn't be talking about this-- we wouldn't be talking at all," he allows with another slice of a grin, almost rueful; he knows what Spock thinks of his incessant flirting, and calling attention to it might be stupid, but it's important that Spock gets it-- important that he understands why this is different, that he believes _he's_ important.

Spock's look is unreadable; Jim can't tell if he's sort of pissed or about to make that wry face that passes for laughing. He takes a step closer, and then another, and he's standing right in front of Jim now with this look on his face Jim's never seen before. And Jim can't tell what his own face is doing but thinks it must be something ridiculous because Spock is just inches away and his brain has started ignoring everything else, including keeping a handle on what stupid faces he's making.

"You think that I need to be convinced of the logic in acting on my desire."

It's half a question; Jim swallows hard and his chin dips in a quick answering nod. "I guess I did, yeah." Definitely something he's not thinking anymore, though.

Instead of answering, Spock changes the subject. "In sickbay, when you told me I was the one who got us off the planet... you were mistaken. That is inaccurate." He pauses for a second, and this whole thing is so uncharacteristic that Jim's forgotten just about everything else and is paying rapt attention to every minute shift in the Vulcan's tone or expression, trying to work through what he's saying and what he's not. "Had you not done everything in your power to keep the Silurian's attention on you, I would not have been in a position to facilitate our escape."

Jim's about to answer when Spock shifts, his hand hovering in the air between them while he looks at it like he doesn't know how it got there. An inch or less away from Jim's cheek, and Spock looks uncertain for possibly only the third time in Jim's memory. "May I?" He must see something in Jim's face because he adds immediately, "Not to meld-- just--" he breaks off and Jim can barely form words, he's overwhelmed with something he doesn't know how to name. He nods.

Spock's fingertips graze his jaw, turning his face to the side, then retreat. For the space of a breath Jim wonders what he's doing, and then there's a light touch on his cheek, tracing from the swell of his cheekbone down to the corner of his mouth, one finger mapping the fine white line pointing toward his ear, and then the one that curls beneath his eye. The only sound in the room is their breathing and the soft whirr of the air filters; Jim's fighting to stay this quiet. Spock's fingers burn, the tentative touches searing his skin, stealing his breath. He thinks he's probably never been more turned on in his entire life, just from Spock touching his face.

Just as he's getting to the point where if he doesn't move he might explode, the hand stills and drops to his neck. "You are still-- quite easy on the eyes," Spock says, his voice little more than a husky whisper, and Jim's eyes fall shut even as he's grinning, because it wrenches his heart and soothes his pride and _God_ is it hot when Spock talks like that. His eyes open again, meeting Spock's warm gaze, and he touches the scar on the soft skin just in front of Spock's ear, his thumb skimming over the narrow ridge where the knife dug in deep, then-- he's been wanting to do this-- running softly up the outer edge of the ear all the way to the pointed tip. He can see in Spock's face what it's doing to him, and he grins again with a satisfied little sound in the back of his throat.

"Jim." Spock whispers his name rough and low, and then that's really all he can take.

"Yeah," he breathes, grabbing him by the neck to haul him into a kiss.

Spock's mouth opens to his and Jim gasps at the heat and at the wild race of Spock's pulse where his fingers are splayed against his neck. A hand rests against his cheek and another on his hip, and he is burning with the same fire scorching his skin under Spock's fingers.

Before this was actually happening, Jim would've liked to think he'd be capable of some finesse, that he'd hold onto at least a modicum of the confidence that was usually his trademark in the bedroom. He's embarrassed to note (with the tiny fraction of his brain that's still thinking) that he's so distracted by how badly he wants this that he's incapable of planning his next move. He doesn't know how they're going to make it to the bed or what he's going to do to Spock when they get there; all he knows is he _wants_, and that he savors the wanting as much as the fulfillment itself.

That last coherent part of his brain dissolves as Spock's teeth scrape his jaw, a hot openmouthed kiss that trails up his scarred cheek to his ear, and Jim shudders, a moan building in his throat, reaching blindly for the hem of Spock's shirt, desperate for the feel of skin under his hands.

His fingers slip inside and up the ridge of his spine and Spock sucks in a ragged little breath, not loud enough for sound but fuck if it isn't the hottest thing Jim could've imagined. He tugs up, "Come on, off," and before the blue shirt even hits the floor Spock's reaching for his, and Jim knows once they start losing clothes like this they'd better make it to the bed sooner rather than later. He doesn't want it to happen like that, frantic and rushed, and maybe that makes him a sap, but he knows Spock won't listen to words the way he'll listen to this.

Jim pushes and pulls and drags until they fall onto the bed in a heap of warm skin and roaming hands, and Spock's knee slides between his and oh, fuck, yes. He doesn't realize he's said it aloud until the echo comes back to him and he looks up to see Spock wearing this _look_, this tight little smile full of satisfaction and something like hunger; and it's both familiar and completely new, this feeling of falling into something without knowing where the bottom is, or if there even is one.

"Yeah, more, give it to me," he mumbles, barely even aware he is speaking, grinding up against Spock's thigh, fingers digging hard against the sharp sweep of his shoulders, his back, pulling him closer, always closer.

Spock's mouth is everywhere and it is driving Jim slowly and deliberately insane, his neck, his jaw, his temple, and his breath is hot on Jim's ear. "Tell me what you want."

"You, this, just you," he pants, he knows it's not much of an answer; how he can even be expected to remember words with that dark voice raking through him is beyond him. Pinned, he can't move much, but his hands make quick work of their remaining clothes, and he kicks his underwear off with a harsh breath as Spock presses against him, gratified to hear a similar sound proving he's not the only one losing control here.

"You will need to be more specific," Spock murmurs against his neck, one hand stroking down his side to his hip, and it's plain he means to tease this out of Jim with excruciating precision.

Well, he's not the only one who can tease, and Jim's not so inclined to be patient. Hooking his ankle around Spock's calf, he arches up against him, hands wrapped around his arms, and on instinct Jim reaches up and threads their hands together. "Specifically," he breathes, his mouth soft and open under Spock's, "I want everything you want to give me."

His fingers twist and stroke, a light touch in contrast to their mouths crashing together again, and Spock goes abruptly still with a sharp chopped-off breath, his eyes falling shut. Jim's eyebrows shoot up; he knows cause and effect when he sees it, and so he does it again, his fingers brushing lightly down Spock's palm, hooking around to trace his knuckles.

"Shit," he breathes, watching Spock's face as he starts to fray at the edges. It's fucking beautiful, that sallow flush and the way his head's bent low; if Jim weren't right under him he wouldn't be able to see, but as it is his eyes are wide and he stares unapologetically. Spock's eyes are tense and tightly shut, his head turned to one side, but his lips are parted and Jim can see how bad he wants this written in every line of his face.

"You like that," it's not really a question and he can't summon the breath to make it sound like one. His fingers are still moving, playing with Spock's hands any way he can reach, and it's so fucking hot watching Spock writhe, feeling every grind of their hips in time with the stroking of their fingers, acutely aware of every place they're touching and the stab of want that burns through him with every shift of skin against hot skin. He knows he could get off just like this, just with Spock pressing him into the mattress, watching whatever he's doing to Spock's hands that's taking him apart.

A laugh hums low in his throat as Jim draws down one of Spock's hands and slips the first finger into his mouth, running his tongue from the knuckle around to the pad of the fingertip, and Spock _shudders_, the first graceless movement Jim's ever seen him make. His shoulders twitch and his hips buck and his cock slides hard and smooth against Jim's, and for a second Jim's not sure who moaned, until he realizes it was both of them. His eyes are practically rolling back in his head, but he's got his tongue tangled now around two of Spock's fingers and he doesn't need to be coherent to remember what to do with them.

Which is a good thing, because the next thing Spock does is shift down on the bed, his breath hot on Jim's neck, then his stomach and then his hip, and Jim catches his eye for just a second before he lowers his head, and his mouth, oh God, his _mouth_. Jim's eyes really do roll back then, a desperate sound tearing from his throat, and his hand wraps harder around Spock's wrist as his tongue slicks between those long fingers, teeth grazing his knuckles, lips dragging over his palm.

He realizes abruptly that he wants to see Spock's face when he comes, and as hard as it is to push him away, he does it, pulling Spock back up beside him and rolling fluidly on top of him, one hand bracing against the bed while the other starts stroking them together. Jim's head dips down and their foreheads bump, ragged breathing filling the air between them, too strung out with need to even kiss.

"Yeah," he breathes, he can't not tell Spock what this is doing to him right now, "yes, fuck, so good," and Spock's hands are bruising into his shoulders, his eyes deep and dark and boring into Jim with infinite precision.

Spock hasn't said much since he said Jim's name, minutes or hours ago, but Jim can see the moment when everything starts rolling away from him, and reaches up to feather his fingers along the green-tinted cheekbone, his thumb on Spock's lower lip. "Yes," he murmurs, "just like this, come on, for me, so good," and he is, and they are, and he hears Spock choke out his name like a curse or a caress, and then, finally, he's quiet.

\---

Spock has always been quick to recover after sex, and so he is the first to catch his breath, the first to turn half on his side and look at Jim, who is still sprawled on his back, staring up at the ceiling and grinning.

"Holy shit," he says, and Spock indulges a small smile.

"I will take that as an expression of enjoyment," he observes dryly, his smile deepening a little as Jim turns an incredulous smirk his way.

"Like you didn't get enough _expressions of my enjoyment_ already," he retorts, and Spock inclines his head, conceding the point.

"I admit I was not surprised to find you so vocal," he allows, eliciting another lazy chuckle.

"Is that a nice way of saying I talk too much in bed?"

"No," Spock is quick to reply, feeling his face flush. A pause, then, "Quite the opposite, in fact."

Jim snorts, rolling onto his side and favoring Spock with a smug grin. "And here I was hoping you'd start finding creative ways to shut me up."

Spock is surprised to hear a low chuckle coming from his own throat. "Given the appropriate provocation, no doubt I could imagine several."

Jim's head tosses back and he laughs aloud, an unfettered sound that spreads warmly through the room. Spock takes the opportunity to appreciate both the sound and the sight he provides, the lean line of his throat, the easy curl of his fingers against the sheet. He wants to touch Jim's face again, but hesitates before such an open display of affection. Illogical, perhaps, given the activity with which they have just occupied the past half hour; but Spock knows that sex and affection are hardly inseparable, and while he knows the depth of his own feelings for his friend (indeed, has mined them with perhaps irrational thoroughness) he does not wish to make an imposition of them.

His thoughts are interrupted, his body jolting in surprise as fingers twine lightly through his own. He half turns, feeling his heart rate begin to increase; there is warm breath against his shoulder and he is overwhelmed by the relief and enjoyment he takes from this relaxed closeness, the ease with which they lay half-tangled together. "You think too loud," Jim murmurs in his ear, and leans up to silence Spock's retort with his mouth, free hand pressing flat to his side, feeling out his heartbeat.

When he pulls back, the captain is wearing a thoughtful expression, one Spock has come to recognize as indicating questions of a personal nature are forthcoming. His mouth opens and then shuts, then repeats the process a second time while, judging from the look on his face, he searches for the appropriate words. "Why'd it take you so long to-- well I know you didn't actually _say_ anything," he corrects himself with a little shake of his head, a rueful smile, "but I mean, you didn't ever even-- and if that hadn't happened, down on the planet, were you just going to keep waiting for me to start flirting with you, or...?" He trails off, his forehead puckering slightly as his bright blue gaze searches Spock's face.

For his part, Spock is caught off guard-- less by the captain's question than by his immediate desire to answer it, not only honestly but to the full extent that he possesses the ability to do so. He is silent for a long moment while he thinks about what to say, tries to organize his mind into the most effective way to illuminate what Jim wants to know.

"I was not _only_ waiting for you to show a sign-- perhaps not of interest, but of the potential for such interest one day to manifest. I suppose I simply-- did not think it likely you would ever want this from me." His eyebrow quirks and he adds, "And I will admit to having an instinct for emotional self-preservation above the level a full-blooded Vulcan might display, which led me to fear losing your friendship if you were made aware of feelings you did not return. What you saw on Siluria, in my mind-- I did not intend for you ever to find out in that fashion."

Jim makes a sound that is part amusement, part incredulity, and Spock is again embarrassed by how relieved he is to hear it. _He understands,_ he realizes, and it brings a smile to the corners of his mouth, and to his eyes.

He stops to consider his next words, his chin tilting to one side for a moment. Once more he examines whether or not it is wise to speak his mind; but the thought shoots through him that it would be foolish to expect that a more appropriate time to do so mightpresent itself. "If it is the certainty of my feelings or my willingness to continue to act upon them that you question-- then I can only tell you that for the foreseeable future, as long as you are willing, so will I be as well." He feels his heart rate rise under Jim's hand and his face darken with another flush, his body betraying the feeling his voice does not.

Jim stirs beside him and Spock turns his head to allow their eyes to meet. Jim is staring at him with the same look he had worn in sickbay when he'd tried to say what he meant without saying it (_you get that, right, you don't have anything to worry about_) a look so exposed and honest that Spock's breath hitches. For all the times he has seen Jim swayed by emotion, there is something unreasonably arousing about having that unrestrained feeling turned solely on him-- knowing, too, that he has already been the cause of Jim's unraveling once tonight.

He cannot say what Jim sees in his expression, but he can read his friend's well enough to see the progression of emotions across it, an array of signs and signals sparking across his face lightning-quick. Amazement, acceptance, gratitude, excitement, relief, desire-- Spock cannot look away, nor does he wish to, fascinated and enthralled by all that is shown to him, some other mysterious feeling warming him from the inside to know this experience is unique, and his alone.

He catches a flash of wicked amusement a moment before Jim rolls, stretching himself out over Spock, their faces impossibly close. "Well," he says, using a frank tone entirely unsuited to the words that follow, "I wasn't doubting you, but since you mentioned it, figured I should warn you I'm probably going to want another demonstration-- in say, ten minutes?"

His mouth curves in that smug grin he wears so well, and Spock gives a slight smile in return as his hands move seemingly of their own volition to seek out the warmth of Jim's skin.

"I believe I will be available at that time," he replies, rewarded by another wild laugh that turns into a hum as Spock's hand slides over Jim's jaw, drawing him down into a kiss.


End file.
